


A Charming Faith

by memoriesandmint



Category: The Scorpio Races - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Horses, Magic, Superstition, Thisby, capaill uisce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 10:24:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11826783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memoriesandmint/pseuds/memoriesandmint
Summary: Sean Kendrick is one of the few relics of Old Thisby left. Faith is a complicated thing, especially when performing superstition-based rituals on an unborn foal to develop the characteristics that will make the capall as safe as possible.





	A Charming Faith

**Author's Note:**

> Mini-fic based on The Scorpio Races by Maggie Stiefvater. Title is terrible, I know. This came about because of a post about half-capaill foals and the superstition that you can discover the foal’s gender by the movement of a string.
> 
> I still can't figure out how to make my indentations transfer over

My left arm trembles. I roll onto the balls of my feet and some of the pressure stops sending static through my heels. The movement gives me a better angle, anyway.  
Malvern’s Mallory lets out a soft huff of air.  
The mare is a sweet bay with no markings and she’s getting restless where she lays in front of me. Her belly is swollen with a foal that will be born half thoroughbred, half capaill.  
I dangle the red ribbon above the unborn foal and will my shoulder to hold, just for a few more minutes. The bell at the end clangs a bit when my muscles stop responding. Behind me, Benjamin Malvern sighs. His impatience makes my eyelids droop with my arm, and I almost miss the first sign of motion.  
My hand, poised above Mallory’s belly, is still, but the bell swings in a straight pattern, back and forth from the ribbon. The foal will be a colt.  
Mutt snorts. He’s already turning on his heel, but it isn’t his benefit I’m doing this for. His father nods, gestures to the box my father gave me filled with the charms I’ve collected over the years.  
Malvern is not the only one who asks this of me. I’d prefer that no one try to breed stock to the water horses, but my interference makes the outcome manageable.  
Still, not even the half-capaill foals are safe.  
Since Malvern is satisfied with the prediction of a colt, I put the ribbon back into the box and my arm unsteadily swings to stroke Mallory’s muzzle while I search through the contents and take out what I need with my right hand. Methodically, I take out dried herbs blended for an affectionate nature, dirt from the middle of the island to quiet the sea’s song, a virgin’s dented claddagh ring hung from white thread to lessen the bloodlust and give the foal an ability to bond both with humans and other horses. A round stone with a whole in the middle is laced into a net with knots in threes and sevens and I put it to soak in a bowl full of freshly caught rainwater to give the foal speed and restraint in equal measure.  
There are a few other charms and things, bits of Thisby to anchor this colt to the island long before his hooves touch its ground. Once everything is arranged properly, I look to Malvern, who nods. I light the candle that is set in the middle of everything.  
First, I lay the dripping net over Mallory’s stomach and place it so that the entirety of the foal’s body is beneath it. My fingers press the mare’s skin, gently, where the center of the stone has worn away and within seconds, I feel the colt press against them. The magic of his capall blood is already strong; I can feel it enter my veins.  
The rest is routine.  
I burn the herbs, sprinkle the dirt, swing the claddagh ring over Mallory, and do everything else that will result in the closest horse possible to the one Malvern bred this colt to be.  
It’s a shame, I think, that he couldn’t do this when his son was in the womb.  
When I finish, I remove the net, pack everything away, and move the candle for Mallory’s gentle breath to snuff out. It’s important that she is the one to do it.  
The mare is easy to coax into standing, but she is gentle about it and I give her a mint candy with a slight smile.  
Malvern is still watching. A few of the grooms have gathered and they lean on stall doors and entryways, not bothering to pretend that they’re busy.  
Sometimes I forget that the ways of Old Thisby are strange to the people of the island. I am one of the few people left who can perform the rituals and even I don’t know if I believe in the magic behind them. The sea’s call and the capaill are entwined in my soul, but the superstitions fall flat. Goddesses and wishes never did anything for me that can’t be attributed to coincidence. I realize that I am standing completely still, holding Mallory’s lead and thinking about the shell I picked up years ago.  
Faith is a hell of a thing on Thisby. We’re lucky that we have the cliffs to separate the church from the sea.  
I guide Mallory to the paddock. She’s an average horse, but she’s got hot blood and magical energy to burn through. The men in the barn step out of my way and they’re gone when I return to pick up my kit.  
I tug at the collar of my shirt; it’s beginning to get cold. In a few months, the capaill will start climbing from the sea and I will be alive and belief will seem less naïve than it does in this barn.  
There’s nothing left to do tonight. The rituals require a starry sky with a crescent moon and the grooms had all of the feeding and turning out done long before I started with Mallory.  
Regardless, the iron-barred stall in the corner calls to me the way the sea beneath the cliffs does. My footsteps toward the blood red stallion inside answer it. Corr is the one thing I feel no shame for believing in.


End file.
